


Give Me A Boost

by ANervousBoysLife



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Afterlife, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Car Accidents, Character Death, Christianity, M/M, One Night Stands, mentioned car accidents that is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 06:03:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13452054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANervousBoysLife/pseuds/ANervousBoysLife
Summary: Coping isn't something Pete Wentz was ever good at. Especially when it was his fault.





	Give Me A Boost

**Author's Note:**

> Heavens Gate is one of my favs off of the new album so here's a fic entirely inspired by it.

The bedroom had never been this silent before. 

No longer were there the shifting of covers, the quiet sighs, grunts, mumblings of a sleeping Patrick. The bed was cold now, half-empty, covers pulled over from one side, never to be stolen back, bundled tightly around the lone inhabitant of the room. It wasn’t even that cold, but the covers were the closest thing to another’s touch in the room. The only sounds in the room were the creaking of the mattress and the soft sobs from which caused the shaking. The blankets were damp from tears shed, salty and stinging. It’d been so long since Pete had his eyes swollen shut, from fighting or tears. 

Usually, Patrick would be there to calm Pete, to sing him to sleep, to stroke his hair, to do anything to calm the storm in his mind. Instead, though, there was no one. Patrick wasn’t here to comfort him anymore. Or anyone. 

There were many nights like this one, followed by days of laying in bed, too tired to move, to get up, to eat, or to shower. He couldn’t bother turning on the TV. It would always end up on Patrick’s favorite channel and he’d have to turn it off again. It just made the hours pass by slightly faster than they already were. Something about that made Pete’s stomach sick.

Months went by like that, but Patrick’s memory would always burn just like it was yesterday.

Of course people would reach out at first, but Pete would only turn them down. Soon enough, Joe’s calls stopped coming in, and Andy’s did too not long after. Pete was a hopeless case. He knew his friends wanted to help, but neither of them could bring Patrick back. 

The only thing Pete did anymore was write in his journals, inconsistently, incoherently, scattered. But it was something. When Joe or Andy tried to read it, they just couldn’t seem to figure it out like Patrick could. The meaning was lost, and Pete had no way to explain it better. Patrick was the one who always knew what he meant. His translator. Pete was a dead language.

Eventually, writing wasn’t satisfying, never really was. It no longer was able to fill the gaps left in his chest. It wasn’t able to settle his mind or let the thoughts escape. They lingered after being written down. He had to find a new escape, one that didn’t remind him of why he needed it. Something that could let him escape his head, fall into a new body, be someone else for a day, night, hour, anything.

So, he finally got out of bed, out of the room, out of his house and down the road. He stuck himself in a bar where he wouldn’t be recognized, wouldn’t be questioned, wouldn’t be bothered by anyone curious about what happened in the past six months. No questions, no looks, nothing. Just the smell of sweat and alcohol.

It was everything he’d expected, everything he’d seen a thousand times. Every social dance you could do just to get into someone else’s pants went down here, and he’d danced that dance many times. That wasn’t the escape he was seeking tonight, though. The room was filled to the brim with no-ones and has-beens, people who peaked in high school, college, et cetera. No one cared who you where, were you’d been, or where you were going. It was the right kind of place to get wasted without a care. That was exactly what Pete was planning on doing as he made his way to the bar, settling himself on a stool, and ordering a shot of the strongest thing they had.

The bartender slid it over without a word, only a sly smile shot his way. Pete figured she was pretty, had nice eyes and hair, a coy smile. It was all the same act he’d seen from a million other girls, a million girls who’d wanted to take him home, to… yeah. That was another distraction Pete could get down with. Just a bit more alcohol in his system. A bit more to let go of any reservations he would have had. To do something just a bit stupid. It was easy, shockingly, to do so. Still, it felt like cheating deep in his gut, as if he’d get home to find Patrick in his bed. He took another shot at the thought, trying to clear away the thought while the pretty brunette tending the bar spoke to him about her classes in college. Damn, she must have been in her early twenties. Pete should feel weird about that, but he didn’t. He was too drunk to really feel bad about anything.

Eventually, she left, whispering that she was getting off work in five minutes. She told him to wait by the door, which he did. When she came back, she asked if he had driven. Pete quickly declined, images of a wreck, drunkenness, crying, the accident. He swallowed, pushing the images away. They got an uber.

Leaving that night, he didn’t uber back. There were scratches down his back, a hickey on the side of his neck, and the stench of sex clung to him like a vice. Her perfume still filled his nose as he walked back to the bar. He’d sobered up in the hours after, laying in bed while she slept beside him. He didn’t leave his number, nor his name. It was better that way. He managed to get to his car before sunrise. He was sober to drive, so he went home. Somehow, when he got back to bed, the guilt of what he’d done crashed over him, causing the tears to prick at his eyes. His breath shook as the first sobs were ripped from his throat. His breathing was erratic, and his lungs burned. His nose ran, his eyes stung, and he didn’t sleep until the sobs had quieted to sniffles, his nose rubbed raw. Everything hurt. Sleep felt a lot more like death.

From then on, it was the same routine, just a different day. Different bars, different hookups, different beds, the same wreck. The same result, the same breakdown in his own bed, the same tears that shed, the same exhausted man that emerged in the morning. Everything that was different was still somehow the same. Pete had hated what he’d become, hated what he was doing and the guilt that came with it. He hated himself for letting it get this far, letting himself fall victim to this vicious cycle he’d created. 

Every night was another suicide run. Every night, he’d take risks, small ones, but every little thing adds up. Drinking on his medication or not taking his medication at all, going home with someone he’d hardly knew, sometimes foregoing condoms. Part of him was ready to die, the other part had already died, it died at the accident. It died in the hospital room when they pulled the plug. It died when he heard that flat line. Patrick was gone, and so was a part of Pete.

Maybe it shouldn’t have been a surprise when he got sick. He still drank anyways. When he threw up blood, it should have scared him, but he still drank. He put on a brave face and went on the town. He ignored the pain that shot through his stomach as he poured glass after glass of liquor. 

The bar went silent when the sound of a glass shattering echoed through the space, followed with the thud of a body falling. 

Pete felt like he was floating. That’s all he could really describe it as. He was surrounded by darkness but couldn’t feel a thing. It was him and his thoughts. He’d recounted the events leading him there. Drinking, pain, dropping his glass and… nothingness. Was he dead? Dying? Passed out? Nothing was really clear, and it felt odd to not know what was happening within his body. Something, Pete wasn’t sure what to call it, clicked in him. He was dying. He could vaguely hear the outside world. It was just out of his reach, but he could hear the frantic movements of people around him, medical terminology he never learned fading in and out. A slight prick in his arm. He could hear the panic in their voices. This is it, he thought, I’m dying. 

Fear, for the first time, settled in his chest. If he died, there was no way he’d get into heaven. There was no way he’d ever see the pearly gates, see angels singing, none of that. He was condemned to hell, he was sure. If it weren’t for one thing, he’d accept that fate, accept that God had chosen that for him, but he couldn’t just accept that. The one thing keeping him from accepting that just might have been the reason he was here.   
Patrick.

The very thought of him brought so much to Pete so quickly. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he did something he hadn’t thought of doing in so long, not since the accident.   
“Patrick…” He spoke softly, and it registered outside of his body too, his unconscious lips moving and whispering what he was thinking, what he was praying. “Patrick. I-I’m so sorry,” He was emotional, breaking down within himself, clinging to his last bits of life just to send his final S.O.S to heaven. “I’m sorry, it was my fault. You didn’t deserve to die in that crash, I did. I was the one behind the wheel. I know I don’t deserve to go to heaven. I know that place is reserved for saints and the pure and people like you. There’s no room for people like me but, I’m begging you, please. My name’s not on the list, the bouncer won’t let me in just… give me a boost? Please, give me a boost over that gate so I can see you again… I’m gonna need it…” 

His body, his slowly crumbling body, shed the tears that were flowing in his mind. And in that hospital room, the chaos seemed to still. The monitor flat lined. The doctors dropped their instruments minutes later. He was brain dead as well. There was no saving him down there. No bringing him back.

Suddenly, to Pete, everything became brighter, white. He felt like he was walking on clouds. He slowly made his way forward, like he was being pulled, climbing what felt like a giant staircase, he couldn’t see the top. He took his time, knowing that once he got up there, he’d probably be thrown off the edge, back down to Hell. Heaven didn’t want him. Maybe he’d get a glimpse of Patrick up here… maybe…

There, on the top of the staircase, with a hand outstretched, was a pale figure, but Pete didn’t need a face to know who that was. Dressed in all white, hair pushed to the side, blue eyes staring brightly and a smile gracing his lips. He hadn’t seen this face in so long, not in person nor photographs, they’d hurt too much to look at. Pete’s feet moved without him telling them to. He leapt up the last stretch of stairs, straight into Patrick’s arms, where he sobbed, clinging to the white attire he’d been covered in.   
Lips brushed over his cheek, over to his ear, and a voice he’d always described as that of an angel spoke to him. “You repented… turns out you really didn’t need my help.” 

Pete’s heart flipped in his chest, and he didn’t know what to do but to kiss Patrick, square on the lips. There were tears and laughter and overwhelming numbers of emotions. But Pete had his Patrick back, and that was all that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> if there's anything i didn't tag or need to tag, let me know!


End file.
